Chapter 267: Crow Meat

Chapter 267: Crow Meat

Crow Meat

Field Next to The Arena

Out in the fields north of the battlefield where thousands had fallen, sixty cavalrymen pushed their weary horses through the darkness, desperate to break free from the enemy that surrounded them. The night air was thick with the memory of carnage and the stench of death. The riders were too exhausted to punch through to the north and reach their Lord. The distant hill camp, their last hope of refuge, was now out of reach. Their only remaining path to freedom was to find a gap in the enemy's movements and escape east toward the city of Canardia.

Yet everywhere they turned, they found a column of rebels blocking their path. So, they skirted around the newly arrived mass of rebels, who looked just as surprised to see them as they were. Despite the bright white light used for illumination, it was indirect and unfocused, leaving much of the field in shadow. Worse, many enemy columns were astray, lost and wandering, making their movements unpredictable.

Still, many rebels hadn't seen them and weren’t actively chasing. So there was still hope lingering for the sixty riders to make it through alive.

Every rider knew what fate awaited them if they were caught. None harbored illusions about mercy. Their past battle at Korimor against Sergio’s Nicopolan fanatics had shown them the face of zealotry. What they saw in the last fight gave them a taste of the Living Saint's fanaticism. For the monastery to have followers willing to march to their deaths, whether driven by magic or mind-poisoning drugs, was an even greater atrocity.

However, despite the best efforts of the nomads and all their cunning, they were too deep in the midst of the enemy, where five thousand men were moving northward, spreading out unevenly across the fields.

In the face of another tightening gap between columns, Sterling reined in his mount and said, "Tribesmen, this gap won't work for the rest of us. We have wounded among us."

The four nomads didn't reply but wheeled their horses around and barked orders to each other in thick accents before trying another path.

Several long minutes passed, and their chances were slipping away.

Their enemies might have been poorly trained and badly coordinated, but they were numerous. More and more rebels caught sight of them, and as with any undisciplined army, many gave chase, hoping for hostages, horses, armaments, or simply to snatch silver and supplies.

Wherever the riders went, the same sight met their eyes: hundreds of rebels ready with walls of spears upon seeing them.

Their horses, now trembling from exhaustion, had no strength to smash through those living barricades.

"There’s no place to evade. We need to break through," the nomads argued openly as they veered off from another closed path.

"More sightings from the east," another rider warned. Ahead, more scattered groups appeared, blocking their way to the city.

Karl rode close to the leading nomads, who were still uncertain which path to take, and said, "We're going to lose a lot if we try an assault under these conditions. Can't you find another way? There must be an open path. Seek it."

The nomads did not argue. They knew horses better than anyone there and realized many would not make it.

Again, they spurred their tough nomadic horses, trying to find another gap.

But after several more minutes of riding, it was clear that every mount, except the nomads’, was panting and deeply struggling.

"Master, the horses are at their limit," Karl's squire warned.

"Damn it," Sterling muttered, knowing the situation had become hopeless for the group.

Watching even his own horse completely spent, Karl shouted, "Stop!"

The horses slowed with relief as the riders gathered amid the tightening ring of enemies.

Under the weary eyes of his men, Karl dismounted. He slung his cranequin and drew his sword. “Let the horses rest. We’ll walk and fight on foot.”

No one objected. Sterling and the others followed Karl’s lead, dismounting and preparing to march on foot.

As they started forward, Karl called, "Sterling."

Their eyes met. "Yes," the lord’s squire replied.

"Go to Dame Daniella’s side. Protect her," Karl said. She had been injured by rebels who had set a trap for her group. They lost a rider in that ambush, and now she was struggling with an injury to her hand and thigh. RΆƝỗＢƐṣ

Sterling nodded. "I'll do what I can."

Then, to the rest of his men, Karl shouted, "Gentlemen, our enemies are on foot. We're on foot. I see no issue!"

Many of his men snorted as they set off at a quick march, guiding their horses behind them.

The nearest rebels chasing them laughed hoarsely. "We got them. They're moving on foot!"

Despite their boasts and taunts, the rebels couldn’t keep up. They had been walking for so long from the village up north that they had little stamina left. They could only rely on the other columns to block and surround.

Leaving those pursuers behind, the sixty and their wounded pushed southeast. But on foot, there was little chance to slip past the columns closing in around them. A column of more than a hundred men, already spread out, finally learned of their presence.

"Horses! It's the Lord's riders!" the rebels shouted.

Another column nearby also became aware of them.

"Recruits and wounded, hold the horses," Karl commanded as the rebels ahead began to turn toward them.

His men obeyed, freeing fifty to form a battle line while the last ten tended to the horses and the wounded.

"Let's show them the price of their foolishness," Karl said. Many of his men flashed dangerous grins. They were done with running.

The two sides closed in. At over one hundred fifty paces, the rebels, feeling the superiority of their numbers and sensing victory, broke into a charge. It was a fatal mistake.

The nomads unleashed their war cries and sent arrows flying. The fifty waited for closer range, then loosed their bolts, striking into the rebels’ line. Dozens were wounded, some spurting blood as they went down. At this distance, the crossbow bolts could pierce the side of a deer. The rebels' advance abruptly faltered.

Without breaking stride, the fifty advanced. They did not run, keeping their line intact as they reloaded.

Despite the chaos of the counterattack, the first rebel column retreated to join the second. Now, the enemy column was more than two hundred strong. They shouted commands and, after realizing their mistake, closed their ranks and put shield bearers in front.

"Shield wall in front," the nomads warned.

"Master, we're down to the last bolt," Karl's squire reported, his nervousness evident.

"Then sword," Karl responded dryly. He knew many had resorted to using bolts they could recover, no matter the condition.

Without breaking pace, the fifty stared into their opponents’ eyes, now barely sixty paces away. The nomads took up supporting roles while the riders, armed with crossbows, loosed their bolts at thirty, even twenty paces. At such short range, the impact made even shield bearers groan as bolts punched through wood, sending bursts of splinters into flesh. In that moment, the fifty charged forward in a wedge.

Even outnumbered, they fought like heroes from old tales. Pressing fearlessly, they plunged into the enemy’s line. The rebels did what they could, thrusting their spears with all their strength, but the gulf in skill was too great. Many were slain without offering much of a fight, and only then did they realize their boasts were nothing but a wishful dream. It was foolish to think they could win easily against well-trained, experienced combatants.

Though stripped of their mounts, the riders were still counted among the Lord’s best. Skilled with crossbows, their true calling was as raiders and skirmishers. Raids and assaults with swords against greater numbers were their specialty.

It was a fight between a cornered beast and the hunter. And this time, the hunter was found lacking.

Leading at the forefront of the wedge, Camp Commander Karl swung his sword and cut down a scrawny man who was too terrified to use his spear properly, holding it up only to shield his face. The blade slashed deep into his chest, hurling him backward into his panicked comrades.

More men came at him.

"I'm getting this promotion, no matter what," Karl quipped to his men in the thick of the fight, then took down another opponent with just two blows from his long-reach horse blade.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The gruesome death of the last man made the other two lose their nerve and flee back to their line.

By chance, Karl spotted a rebel officer in fine ringmail and leveled his sword at him. "Oi, corpse-bait. Come at me, you traitor bastard!"

The rebel officer spat but sent his men forward instead of facing him.

The rebels brandished their spears at Karl, but they weren't the immediate threat. Amid the wall of spear points, a fighter rushed at him, wearing ringmail and wielding a mace.

"No introduction?" Karl feigned a complaint, but unwilling to risk a strong opponent, he calmly drew his mini cranequin and pointed it at the charging man, who saw it too late

The small cranequin shuddered with a jolt as it unleashed its power from the Centurian steel prod. With a velocity meant to kill boar at a distance, the bolt struck the man squarely in the chest, stopping him dead in mid-air and sending him crashing backward. He didn’t even have time to groan. His life was forfeited in an instant.

The rebels around him gasped and cursed in shock.

Noticing the reaction, Karl trained his now empty and slow-to-reload cranequin on the rebels. Many shrieked and pushed back in the ranks.

Seeing the enemy’s reaction, the rest of the fifty surged forward. Despite wearing only light cavalrymen’s armor, Karl’s men fought with ruthless determination, intent on breaking through the line in a single assault. After a quick but bloody few minutes, they managed to deliver a crippling blow to the center of the rebel column.

The fight was not yet concluded when a nomad called out, "Commander!"

Karl, his right gauntlet glistening with blood from several fights, turned and saw the tribesman pointing to a thinning of the enemy ranks to the southeast.

"A gap!" the man shouted.

Karl, in turn, called to his men, several of whom were frantically searching for bolts to retrieve. "Swords!" he ordered, knowing the opening was too valuable to risk losing.

But as they were about to advance further, luck abandoned them.

"Karl," his old battle brother called out, "they’ve got our rear."

Karl turned and saw that rebels had surrounded their rear.

With only Sterling and a handful of men holding the rear, Karl raised his voice above the chaos. "All men, follow the tribesmen! Move, now!"

The nomads nodded, their kinsmen forming the tip of the spear. Forty moved as ordered, but ten of the most veteran stayed behind.

"You don't have to," Karl said to the ten as they rushed to the back, passing several hurried men guiding their weary horses.

"Don't get all moody with us. We, too, seek promotion opportunities," one quipped.

Light chuckles came from them as they raced to the rear and found their men fighting for their lives.

...

Amid the scattered bodies of rebels, sparks flew as Sterling blocked his opponent’s powerful overhead sword blow. Everyone could see Sterling gritting his teeth, reeling from the force, his bare face exposed now that he had lost his helmet. His opponent abruptly pulled back, allowing Sterling to strike. The lord's squire sent a shallow diagonal cut from the left, which his opponent parried with ease. But it was only a feint. Sterling spun his sword off the opponent’s blade and unleashed a lightning-fast strike from the right, aiming for his opponent’s head.

The man in a weathered red doublet was surprised, but he stepped aside. Sterling’s blade swept so close it nearly sliced his nose, but the man merely smiled as he slipped back into his stance.

Everyone was impressed, including the thirty or so rebels who crept ever closer, tightening the noose around the riders’ position, their eyes fixed on the horses.

"Not all of us are peasants," the man in the weathered doublet taunted.

"Horse robbers then?" Sterling shot back.

Surprisingly, that wiped the smirk from the man's lips, as if confirming the accusation.

"No wonder you’re good at this," Sterling pressed, glancing at the thirty rebels that surrounded him.

The rebels were indeed preparing to make their move, but they were so drawn to the fight that they became oblivious to eleven men who had vanished into the dark, straying from the path only to suddenly reappear at the rebels’ flank.

The rebels gasped as they saw them emerge from the shadows, eyes wide with shock. One tried to run, but Karl plunged his sword into the man's belly, while the man next to him shoved another rebel to the ground, a dagger already slicing his throat with the ease of a butcher slaughtering a goat.

A scream finally erupted from the rebels’ flank, drawing everyone’s attention to the sudden ambush. Karl and his men had come to break the encirclement around Sterling.

"Tch," the man in red clicked his tongue at his brethren's failure.

Sterling would have launched an attack if not for the throbbing pain from a head wound he’d suffered earlier when four men jumped him.

A short distance away, the wounded Dame Daniella nudged her assistant to attack while the man in red was distracted. With a thunk and a powerful jolt, a bolt ripped through the night air, sending the man in red wide-eyed. His instincts bordered on supernatural as he ducked aside, moved by reflex alone.

The horse robber was almost fast enough to avoid the shot, but the bolt grazed his right shoulder, sending him reeling a few steps back.

"Fuck," he cursed, blood seeping from the top of his shoulder and soaking his red doublet.

Sterling started to step forward and would have lunged if not for another hundred or so rebels moving toward the area.

Karl and his men noticed too and abruptly disengaged, moving toward Daniella. They knew better than to be outmaneuvered.

"Sterling," Karl shouted, alerting him to their movement.

They were out of time. Sterling glanced toward Daniella. "Withdraw now!"

A flash of steel caught his eye, and Sterling parried just in time with a loud clank.

"Your eyes should be on me, Sterling, or I'll make soup out of you and your mare," the man in red threatened as they traded thrusts, parries, and slashes.

Watching Sterling fight, Daniella hesitated. She had tried to help her assistant reload, but they found no bolts left.

Her assistant urged, "We need to go. We're the last few."

"But nobody is backing Sterling."

"You can't help him, Dame. Not with your wound," her assistant retorted bluntly.

Daniella grunted and made a limp toward the horse. With her assistant's help and a groan, she managed to mount one of the last horses in good condition. As she sat in the unfamiliar saddle, she turned toward Sterling, who was still locked in battle.

One of his men noticed. "Go! We'll help him."

She gazed at the speaker, who had a gruesome gash across his face. "But your injury?!"

"Not in the legs," he replied, speaking through pain.

Daniella had no argument to make. If she were still capable of gripping her sword, she would have spurred her horse and turned to face the man in red. But her right hand and arm were useless, numbed from a fall.

Without warning, the white light suddenly went out, catching everyone off guard. Few had bothered to keep their lanterns or torches lit, and now the night swept over the grassland, swallowing everything in darkness.

"What is going on?" the horse robber complained, stepping back, unable to see anything.

Given the chance, Sterling dashed toward Daniella, whose horse had a lantern strapped to the saddle. In the darkness, he collided with a group of men and nearly fell, but a strong hand caught him.

"Karl," he gasped, recognizing the face in the faint glow of a concealed lantern.

"It's him. Let's go," Karl ordered his men.

As Daniella and the rest fled into the dark, the horse robber grew agitated, trying to find them with the lone torch they still held. "Running away, are you, Sterling? So much for an honorable fight between us," the man in red taunted, hoping to provoke a reaction.

There was no reply, only the tense babble of voices and frantic movement as men, likely fellow Saint followers, stumbled blindly in the dark. The field was alive with confusion.

A hundred Saint followers came up behind. "We saw horsemen. Where did they go?"

"We're looking for them. You should come with us," the man in red said as his men lit another torch they had found in the bag he’d stolen from the dead.

"Make a line," the leader of the hundred instructed.

The rebels did so. One asked, "Why did the light go down? Haven’t we regained control over it?"

"How should I know?" his friend muttered, coughing from thirst.

While searching, his old friend tapped the man in red’s shoulder and pointed at a line of feeble lights in the distance, moving toward the city.

The man in red squinted, just able to make them out. "You’re not escaping us," he declared, then led his twenty-odd horse robbers and a hundred rebels in a reckless chase.

As they marching across the field, more Saint followers saw the lights from their torches and joined in, swelling their numbers to several hundred.

"Don't they still have horses? Can we catch them?" a newfound rebel ally asked.

"Of course. Even if they reach the gate, they'll have to prove their identity before it opens. And if we're near, I doubt the guards will risk it," the man in red replied.

"More groups are joining us," his friend muttered as they ran through the dry grass, many stumbling as they hit uneven ground.

"Magnificent. This will be a profitable night," the man in red said, his tone sly.

"Say, just between us, how should we split the spoils?" his rebel ally asked.

"I'm not a greedy bastard. We'll split what's taken. You can have any hostage but one man, and we take all the horses."

"Tough bargain," the other man grinned as they pressed on toward the distant lights.

As the mass of five hundred drew closer, the man in red raised his voice and called out, "Sterling, boy, you're not getting away from me. Not after killing my men."

But in their chase, the hunters were oblivious to the approach of predators.

Thundering with unbelievable speed, twenty-nine pairs of eyes, keen and unblinking in the dark, bore down on the rebels. Even after sprinting across a wide stretch of land, the descendants of prehistoric beasts from the ancient swamps and savannah, charged easily into the unsuspecting hundreds. Their stamina was endless, their strength overwhelming, their hatred boiling over.

The rebels never knew what hit them. Bodies were seized, crushed, and tossed through the air like bundles of hay. Men were trampled as the rear ranks were smashed aside. Screams tore through the night, and many scrambled for weapons, but froze as massive, sharp beaks snapped them up or crushed them under powerful webbed feet.

The lucky managed to escape to the flanks. The unfortunate were crushed beneath creatures that rivaled the size of draft horses.

Even the man in red and his group were alarmed. "What is it? What's going on?"

They readied their weapons, but the great ducks reached them at full charge.

"AAAH!" The man in red and those around him screamed, scattering in all directions, but a beak lashed out and caught him. He swung his sword wildly as he was crushed, but never landed a blow before he was slammed to the ground.

There was only an involuntary gasp, his whole body screaming in pain and overwhelming his senses. His neck almost snapped. Struggling for a shallow breath, he witnessed his final agonizing moments in the land of the living as a large webbed foot stomped down on his belly. All his life, he had been stealing horses, even once eating a prized horse’s liver in front of its owner out of spite, and now his belly was crushed.

"HONK!" The largest of the ducks bellowed, as if declaring supremacy.

The organized chase quickly dissolved into madness. Unable to see clearly in the dark, the rebels shouted about demon spawn, terrified by the wet crunch of bone and the horrified screams of the dying. Before long, hundreds scattered.

But the slaughter did not stop. In what would become a tale of legend, the ducks went on a hunt, killing every rebel they found near the city wall and leaving hundreds of mangled bodies scattered along its length. Some later claimed the ducks could find rebels by scent alone.

The blood-soaked night came to a close, and with it, the first day of Saint Nay’s rebellion finally ended.

***

Canardia

Morning came, and wild stories spread everywhere about what had happened the previous day. The market was closed, food was hard to find, and most people stayed home as the city lay under siege. In hushed voices, grim tales of the Lord's defeat circulated through the town. Murmurs and arguments broke out on every street. The air was heavy; everyone was tense and afraid. Many questioned if they would soon face another regime change after so short a time. Some lamented that the rule of House Lansius, once thought strong and promising, now looked ready to end so quickly.

As the sun climbed higher, more information trickled down from many sources. The townsfolk learned more about the battles, and every scrap of news sparked fresh debate, fueled by rumor and desperate hope.

Gradually, people began to piece the story together, and the shock deepened.

The Lord had indeed been defeated, forced to flee the battlefield. But new accounts told a different story. He ran only after winning four separate battles, each against overwhelming odds. Some claimed he fought thousands with just a few hundred men. With every new detail, the numbers grew. Soon, many believed he had fought three thousand rebels in the first battle, four thousand in the second, five thousand in the third, and even greater numbers at the fourth.

Some claimed their numbers came from men-at-arms, captured rebels, or other sources, but many were simply making things up, the stories growing wilder with every mug of ale.

For now, the besieged city could only wait, haunted by stories and the shadow of what was still to come.

***